Shifting her position so that she knelt forward, Tamara spread her fingers through the sodden earth and reached as far as she could before the water lapped at her shoulders. Sludge wrapped around her hands, and it seemed the cavern had become a mass of slush as she’d feared. A sense of hope begun to surface when her hands slipped over wood buried just under the tunnel’s floor. She couldn’t tell if it was the support structure built to prevent a collapse of the exit hole, or if it was the gnarled length of a root, but she decided she had no choice but to take her chance.
Tamara sucked in a deep breath, let gravity take her, and slipped into the dirty water.
She kept her lids closed, not wanting debris beneath the surface to damage her eyes. She could normally see very well in the dark, but with no trace of light at all inside the river’s bank beneath the water it wouldn’t matter if she stared wide-eyed. She made her way quickly through the floating mud by touch alone. The tunnel seemed to get narrower, and Tamara feared she might get wedged into the aperture. Another image presented itself; one of the curled tree roots snagging her clothing and locking her in a place that had disturbingly started to resemble a tomb.
She was supposed to be immortal, to have a never-ending life, but Tamara feared she would drown within a matter of seconds. Although, it didn’t seem her lungs were protesting about a lack of air. She’d swam before, more so when she thought her existence was that of a normal, mortal human, but she’d never before attempted to see how long she could stay beneath the water before needing air. It seemed as if she’d been searching for the tunnel’s exit for a long time now, yet that panicky sensation of losing oxygen had not started.
Her fingers found more wood in the disturbed mud, only this time it wasn’t a solitary obstacle but a flat surface. Optimism surged through her desperate emotions and she dug her feet into the soil around her and propelled her body forward. Stretching her hands to the sides she located a timber barrier climbing the walls of the small tunnel, and felt certain she’d found the gap leading into the main river.
A current other than what her searching hands had created disturbed her face, the water cooler as it touched her skin. Her left hand grabbed a solid edge and she pulled, her right hand flailing in open water. Before she realized how good the open space around her felt, the enclosing tunnel passed beyond her body and she tumbled forward, suspended in the river’s cooling waters.
Rubbing a hand across her face Tamara opened her eyes. Gloom settled all around her, but a grey light penetrated the depths: the muffled light from an overcast sky. Tamara located the direction of current flow and kicked with her legs, the river taking her away from the monastery and away from those voracious werewolves she knew were still hunting her. It also took her away from the father-figure she’d had for the last fifteen years.
When she felt she’d travelled far enough downstream, Tamara kicked to the surface and took a much-needed breath of air. She stayed above water for a while, gazing into the shadowed silhouettes of trees lining the riverbank, listening for the sounds of a pursuing pack of lycanthropes yet hearing nothing safe for the rush of the river that surrounded her.
Alone in an unfamiliar country and fighting an overriding sense of fear, Tamara let the river carry her in its mass. She decided one thing for certain: she’d stand her ground from now on and fight for control of the clan, if not the supernatural world itself.
She knew she’d succeed; or die trying.
FOUR
Castel Bãtrânilor
Carpathian Mountains
Romania
Early morning sunlight flooded through the castle’s glass-fronted façade and laid large squares of brilliance upon the wooden floor. Two of the six windows were open a fraction, allowing a cooling breeze to squeeze into the bedroom and ruffle the edges of eighteenth century embroidered curtains.
Markus stood by the window, although not in the sun’s glare—mortals may believe that sunshine will turn a vampire to dust but in reality, apart from a nasty case of ultraviolet burning, the brilliant rays are harmless. Standing to the left of the ornate window, preferring the coolness of shade, Markus gazed at the incredible vista surrounding his palatial home.
A courtyard enclosed by marble balustrades spread in front of the window. Cobblestone pathways meandered through landscaped gardens and granite statues graced every intersection: sculptures of vampire Elders both alive and dead. His own effigy was erected nearest the castle, in full view of his bedroom window, a marble figure twice his normal size, standing straight and proud with his long coat pulled back to reveal the sword he’d used so often in battle. Every morning Markus woke to see his handsome face set in stone—he could stare at it for hours.
Sunshine bleached the forest-clad mountains beyond the castle grounds, turning dense woodland a lighter shade of green. The undulating terrain formed a majestic horizon with a sky that had dawned blue yet interspersed with the white flakes of cirrus clouds.
Nestled in the heart of the Carpathian Mountains, Castel Bãtrânilor—Castle of the Elders—had been constructed almost eight hundred years ago. First built using wood from the surrounding forest, Markus’s grandfather, Gabriel, ordered the citadel to be redesigned and strengthened with dark Romanian stone a century after its foundations were laid. Oval in construction, the castle sprouted six rounded towers from red slate roofs, the battlements providing a spectacular view of the rolling Carpathians and fields to the south. Stables to the rear of the property had fallen into disrepair ever since the castle had been isolated six hundred years ago and passage to the citadel by horseback became impossible. Vampire Enforcers had worked around the clock to gouge out the mountainside, elevating the castle above the surrounding woodland so that it now sat perched atop a three hundred foot mound of rock. They’d ground down the stone until it was smooth as polished marble. Not even the talons of werewolves could find purchase on the sheer cliff face.
Throughout the frenzied war against feral lycanthropes, Castel Bãtrânilor had remained the one place of true sanctuary for vampire Elders. Its impenetrability grew even more important once those undesirable hybrids entered the conflict two centuries ago. The stronghold had not been needed quite so desperately over the past year as the centuries-old war had taken a diversion onto more pressing matters, but throngs of renegade werewolves still tried their luck against the solid fortress. Those futile raids failed every time, and Markus couldn’t understand their brutish persistence.
He reminded himself that he should speak to Isaac and persuade him to take a firmer hand with his uncouth rabble.
A drowsy groan filtered into his thoughts, and Markus turned from the window.
White-washed walls made his bedroom glow with luminosity. When he inherited the fortress one hundred and eighty years ago, Markus ordered every room in the house to be painted white. He’d spent so many centuries in darkened hideouts and battling lycanthropes in the murky underworld that he now desired an eternity of brightness. The floors remained dark however, with polished oak laid throughout the castle. He loved the room, having handpicked the furniture within. A large tapestry rug covered the floor with a high-backed chair positioned near an open hearth. Two long, oak benches were stationed on either side of the door into the room, and a large, sculptured dowry chest—concealed by a four hundred year-old embroidered cloth—had elegantly crafted candlesticks and clay pots placed on its surface. Original paintings by Ion Andreescu and Nicolae Grigorescu decorated the walls. A forty-two inch plasma television hanging on the far wall clashed with the antique furnishings, rudely bringing the twenty-first century into the bedroom, but there were certain things even a vampire Elder couldn’t go without.
His attention fixed to his rosewood baldaquin bed. Hand-crafted in the eighteenth century, the bed’s dark paintwork ensured it stood prominent in the white room. Four rounded posters held the bed’s roof in place, with silk drapes drawn aside and tied with silk ribbons. The outlines of serpents and horsemen were engraved into the thick timber,
and Markus’s own coat-of-arms was affixed to the giant headboard. White satin sheets lay disheveled across the mattress, but his gaze focused on the figure stirring beneath the covers.
Ilanna’s pallid form appeared as soft and downy as the expensive bed sheets she lay on; her lithe, elegant frame belying the incredible strength and dominance she possessed. Brunette hair fanned out across the pillows, a slender arm rising from under the covers. She stretched, her long body straightening, legs pushing the thin sheet down her body. Firm breasts caught the early morning light, her glorious mounds blemished by the marks his fangs had made during last night’s love making.
She propped her body with her arms, gazed across the room to the large window, and smiled. “Good morning, darling.”
Her loved her; had done so for almost seven hundred years.
Markus stared at his wife and the sight alone made cold blood invade his penis. His loose-fitting pajama trousers wouldn’t hide his arousal, and he didn’t care. “Good morning, my sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”
She nodded and winked. “Yeah; I was exhausted.”
Markus laughed, and when Ilanna joined him the sound she made was almost musical. They’d been through so much together during the course of seven centuries that Markus felt as if his and Ilanna’s lives were intertwined for a reason; entangled together to become one forever. Both were now the oldest vampires in the coven—Elders in the true sense of the word.
Markus could still remember the ceremony to bestow upon them their honored position, held within the inner courtyard at Santi Quattro Coronati, his beloved fortress in Rome. The square had been bedecked with crimson silk banners that spanned the courtyard’s width, and elegantly embroidered tapestries hung from the castle’s gray, stone walls. Trestle tables and benches were arranged in rows around the courtyard’s outer edges, the table’s surfaces covered by pressed, white linen cloth. The invited guests had dined at these tables, consuming a healthy meal of meat and poultry with potatoes, all washed down by the finest Italian wine or goblets of blood drained from a number of unfortunate peasants from Rome’s furthest outskirts. Markus could still remember sitting at the head table, himself and Ilanna the focus of attention, gazing out on the crowd of elegant vampires over which he hoped to rule until the end of time. The fluctuating light of beeswax candles had illuminated Ilanna and he as they entertained the gathered dignitaries with the night’s first dance, the recollection of that moment forever burned in his memory.
Afterwards, they’d taken the regal carriage to Bucharest, then made the arduous journey to this very castle and consummated their highest accolade with hours of love making.
It’d felt like a honeymoon.
That had happened one hundred and eighty years ago; they’d received the castle as a gift from the coven, in addition to overall command of the covenant. They’d arrived at their lofty position by virtue of Raul’s death at the hands of werewolves in the foothills of the Italian Alps. Raul was the last of the coven’s founding Elders to be laid to rest in the sarcophagi beneath Rome’s ancient castle, an event that preceded Markus and Ilanna’s crowning by a mere four days.
Markus couldn’t remember the sadness he’d felt at the loss of the last great commander, but his elation at gaining control of the coven was an emotion he’d hold with him for eternity.
He stared at his lover and sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to return to Rome today.”
A frown of discontent creased Ilanna’s beautiful features. “I know, my darling, I wish we didn’t have to either; but these war cabinets are very important if we intend to destroy the hybrid bloodline for good.”
As always, he knew Ilanna was right.
Since that first, awkward meeting with Isaac a year ago, Markus had returned to Italy just twice. The first time to sign the original agreement: the document that called for an immediate truce between the warring vampire and werewolf factions in order to eradicate the hybrid species. Another document placed all the blame for their six hundred year war with lycanthropes squarely on his shoulders. Markus had signed that paper out of sight, in a private chamber away from the gathering war cabinet, with Anton, Isaac, and the Alpha-Male’s sidekick as the only witnesses. He’d sworn Anton to secrecy and to his knowledge no other vampire, not even Ilanna, knew that his signature stained the lower reaches of such a bothersome agreement.
The signing of the truce had occurred in full view of the gathered cabinet; Isaac and he were proclaimed as heroes.
Tomorrow’s meeting was bound to be just as tiresome as those previous conferences. He hated being in the presence of Isaac and his cursed breed, but realized a large portion of his discomfort stemmed from a fear that Isaac would reveal all to Ilanna; if she knew he’d risked his reputation and status in the coven, he doubted she would forgive him.
She swung her long, ashen legs out of bed and Markus’s troubles evaporated. The sight of her nudity pleasured him every time, and not even an immortal lifetime could challenge his love for her.
“I need a shower,” she whispered. Her lips pursed in a seductive smile, Ilanna sauntered across the polished oak floorboards with the confident, lengthy stride of a catwalk model.
Markus focused his attention on the rhythmic motion of her ass, shifting his gaze momentarily to eye Ilanna’s flowing mane of brunette hair that hung halfway down her bare back. His arousal climbed another notch.
He considered himself the luckiest vampire alive: spending an eternity with this maiden would be Heaven itself.
She entered the en-suite bathroom without a backwards glance, but his emotions had been stirred too much. Stepping away from the large windows, he walked across the room.
Authentic seventeenth century furniture decorated the bathroom: a Bellissimo vanity sink made of solid wood with a combined renaissance and baroque style; a hand-painted Regalia table with a crafted mirror on its surface; even an eighteenth century marble bathtub in the far corner beneath a small square window. The shower unit had been installed about three years previously, its glass doors steamed with condensation.
Silhouetted through the steam, Ilanna’s figure looked captivating.
“You plan on standing there gawking,” Ilanna shouted above the rush of water, “or are you going to join me?”
With his undead heart beating furiously, Markus stepped out of his pajama trousers, and entered the cubicle.
* * *
When Markus left the bathroom Ilanna returned to the shower. She never felt dirty after being with her husband, but the passion of their lovemaking often left her layered with sweat and bleeding from multiple puncture wounds. The hot water ran red for a while, its spray stinging the tender flesh around the bite marks.
Adjusting the setting to massage, Ilanna hung her head and let the jets of water drum off her shoulders and neck.
Although she wasn’t looking forward to the long trek to Italy, Ilanna figured the change in scenery would do her good. With the exception of occasional trips abroad—to Rome for the recent cabinet meetings, and jaunts to a number of locations in Central Europe to oversee the war effort—she’d spent most of the last two years inside the castle walls. At first, it had felt like a necessary sacrifice, to be close to her beloved daughter and mourn the child’s passing in her own time, but now the monotony weighed heavily on her being. As much as she loved this castle in the mountains, an immortal lifetime was too long a span to reside in one place.
Markus’s lengthy return from Italy had made staying here much easier to bear, but at times he seemed distracted, adding to her sense of lonesomeness. In reality, the time to move on from Gabriella’s death had long passed; she didn’t need to keep herself so close to her offspring’s remains. If there was such a place as Heaven for vampires, then her daughter resided there.
Grabbing the soap from a dish bolted to the tiled wall, Ilanna massaged her lissome frame. Almost eight hundred years had passed since her birth and Ilanna still delighted at how supple and trim her body looked. She resembled a st
unning woman in her mid-thirties; long shapely legs, taut abdomen, and full breasts. Ilanna seldom wore makeup, her face a portrait of natural beauty.
Sliding her hands across her wet skin, she rested them on her belly and hoped they’d succeeded this time. Ninety years had elapsed since Gabriella’s birth, a lifetime too fleeting for someone who had the prospect of living forever. They’d tried for a child numerous times since the princess’s death without success, but this morning a subtle difference seemed to have been ignited inside her. She tried not to get her hopes up, but offered a silent prayer that new life had managed to grab a foothold.
Gone were the days when she’d been used as an incubator to produce another generation of vampire in order to keep the bloodline strong and the numbers of their armies well stocked. Now that she was an Elder, the head of the coven, she could concentrate on creating a real family. If she could wish for just one thing for the rest of time, it would be to have the undying love of a devoted child.
Those vampires she manufactured in the first four hundred years of her life were like shadows to her now. She had no idea if they were alive or dead, or even if she conversed with them on a regular basis. How many children she’d borne Ilanna had no idea, and right now she didn’t care. That part of her life, an existence of war, slaughter and copulation, had faded into history. She was above and beyond all of that now.
Markus and she had another child, a son born fifty years before Gabriella. He’d commanded a group of Eliminators in Spain until his squad had been ambushed by a large battalion of lycanthropes with the loss of every soul. His death had occurred while Gabriella resided in Ilanna’s womb, and her grief had almost initiated a miscarriage. Gabriella’s death, a double-loss, had hit Ilanna hard.
The Last Stand -- Blood War Trilogy Book III Page 5